VHALLA TURNED TO look at their attacker. The silver embellishments on the woman’s arms glittered in the firelight. She wore base leather armor overlaid with a strange piece of clothing over her shoulders and chest, like a rectangular pennon with a hole cut in the center for the head. Embroidered upon it was a foreign script that Vhalla had never seen before. At the woman’s waist was a large belt, an empty sword sheath hanging off of it.
“Well, well, this makes things easy,” the woman spoke, her voice barely audible from behind the faceless mask. If the green skin wasn’t enough, the attacker’s accent was proof that she was one of the jugglers. “I never expected the mighty Crown Prince Aldrik to come running all by his lonesome. It’s too noble for the man who torches babes in their beds.”
The woman rounded them slightly. To the couple’s backs were piles of rubble, to their side was an inferno, and before them was a sword-wielding Northerner. Vhalla knew nothing of combat, yet she was able to see that they were not in a good position.
Aldrik was silent. He stood straight and tense, his hands clenched in fists, fire crackling and hissing around them. It trailed up his arms and singed the bottoms of his rolled sleeves.
“Vhalla,” the prince said roughly. The other woman raised her eyebrow and glanced over to her. “Go, get out of here.”
“What about Roan?” she asked weakly.
“Go, that is an order.” Even though flames raged around her, Vhalla suddenly felt cold.
“It’s rude to leave a party early,” the woman chimed in.
“Here I was merely trying to spare you the embarrassment of dying a pathetic death with an audience,” Aldrik lashed out.
The woman growled and lunged.
Aldrik stepped to the side, the Northerner ducked below his flaming punch and twisted, shifting her weight to bring her sword up. Aldrik jumped back, the tip of the blade missing him by a hair’s breath. She pursued with a back-handed slash, targeting his opposite shoulder. Aldrik spun around her side, grabbing the arm holding the weapon. Flames burned brightly, licking up the woman’s skin.
At first, Vhalla thought her immune to the flame. But as she watched the flesh changed color before her eyes, it dawned on her that the green color was actually a fire-resistant paint. She stared in shock as the woman’s mask was thrown off during a vigorous spin to land a sword hit into Aldrik’s side. He cried out, losing his balance and stumbling. Vhalla struggled to find her feet and escape the rubble.
“Vhalla, go!” he grunted.
As the woman raised her sword arm again, Aldrik reached up and grabbed the dark bare skin with his hands. Fire seared across her flesh and she cried out as it began to ripple and bubble under the heat. Her agony rose to a torturous scream unimpeded by any mask, and she dropped the sword. She twisted and fought with her free hand, but Aldrik held fast.
He stood slowly and released his right hand from her arm, which had almost burned away to the bone. Taking advantage of her shocked state, Aldrik pressed his palm to the woman’s face and her body seized. It jerked and contorted as flames licked around her eyes, boiling them in their sockets. Her throat swelled with the internal blaze, and she finally went limp. Aldrik tossed the charred corpse aside and looked to Vhalla.
Vhalla stared on in horror, her hands were over her ears, trying to block out the echo of the Northerner’s last desperate noises before death. She stared at the charred corpse. That was what they were fighting in the North? Certainly her skin had been slightly darker than a Westerner’s, and her hair curlier than a Southerner’s. But she had been human. She had been no more or less than Vhalla, and Aldrik had killed her.
Her eyes swung up to the man who had both saved her life and burnt a person alive. He had killed this woman and countless others. Aldrik took a step forward, and Vhalla took a step back. She swallowed. Why were they fighting these people at all?
Aldrik laughed darkly. “What did you think I was?” he snarled. “Did you think I went to war and read books?” Vhalla took another step back. “You ran head-first into my daily hell. Would it not be more convenient if weapons of death and torture could not talk back?” Vhalla forced herself not to tremble as she looked at him. He glared at her; the orange of the fire reflecting in the black mirrors of his eyes.
With all the bravery she possessed, Vhalla crossed the distance between them; he straightened and looked down at her, imposing. Vhalla swallowed hard and tried to muster her last scrap of confidence. There would be time later to ask him about the real reasons behind the war. For now, they needed to go home.
She grabbed his hand, praying it didn’t burst into flames at her touch. It didn’t.
“Quit being stupid, Aldrik. Let’s go.” His features barely softened, but it was more than enough to know she had made herself clear. Whatever this man was, he wasn’t a monster. Vhalla took a step back, turning to grab Roan and start the gory trek home.
With stunning clarity, she heard the distinct twang of a bowstring piercing the air. Vhalla moved instinctively in front of her prince.
She screamed a noise worse than any she had never made before as the arrow pierced her shoulder.
“Vhalla!” he roared as she fell to her knees.
She gasped for air, she gasped to make a sound. The pain seared through every nerve in her body, across every synapse in her mind. It seized her muscles and forced her to blink dizzying blackness from the edges of her sight. His hands were supporting her but his attention was elsewhere. Vhalla turned her head to try to see what he saw. But when she caught sight of the arrow sticking out of her body she instantly struggled with consciousness.
“My, isn’t this charming?” Vhalla tilted her head over her other shoulder to see the source of the voice. Her vision was becoming tunneled and she willed her eyes to focus.
There were three of them.
“It’s the jugglers,” she murmured.
“Don’t talk,” Aldrik whispered harshly, his thumb caressing her shoulder as he supported her.
“Careful, they’re, they’re missing...” She struggled to count. “They’re missing two still.”
He glanced at her and then back at the people.
“Don’t you think it’s charming?” a man asked.
“It really is,” came a nasally woman’s voice.
“The noble prince, defending the damsel. Who knew the Fire Lord had it in him?” the man snarked.
Vhalla heard the ring of metal on metal as a sword was drawn. These people truly wanted to kill them, Vhalla realized as she felt blood soaking down to her waist. She wasn’t in a position to run anymore; if he carried her, she would only burden him.
“Aldrik...” she whispered. He didn’t move but she knew he’d heard. “Go, go and leave me.” It was her fault he was there in the first place. The last thing she could do in her life was to ensure the heir to the throne did not die on account of her stubbornness. Vhalla closed her eyes and dipped her head.
“No,” he replied in a soft and low voice.
“Your life is worth more than mine. It’s the life I partly gave you, isn’t it?” She smiled faintly as she heard footsteps and the crunch of bodies across the street. Aldrik said nothing. “I should have some say over whether you throw it away or not. So, go.” His fingers gripped into her arms. She was fairly sure he was bruising her.
“You know, we thought it was a lie you were alive at all.” It was the man’s voice again. Aldrik still hadn’t moved. “Our leader brewed the poison that was on the dagger. One prick should’ve killed a large Noru Cat, and I hear you had the whole damn thing in your side.”
Aldrik’s breathing had become heavy. Vhalla was confused about the mention of a dagger.
“Then again, we also hoped that if the poison failed to kill you, the shame of one of your dear sweet brother’s men stabbing you in the back would be enough.”
Aldrik stood, and she swayed without his support. Yes, Vhalla thought weakly, go. She propped herself up with her uninjured arm and turned to sit on rubble so she could face her attackers. Unfortunately, Aldrik hadn’t run. He stood, fire surrounding his fists again.
One of the women laughed. “He’s still injured. Look, that pathetic little spark is likely all he can muster.” This woman was holding a bow, and Vhalla hoped she could keep her eyes open long enough to watch the woman’s face be burnt off. “Come, let us end this now.” She notched an arrow on her bowstring.
The man held his sword with both hands and the other woman followed suit. Aldrik took a few steps toward them, and Vhalla’s stomach twisted in agony. He wasn’t going to run. The three advanced slowly.
“Careful, he may be a beast with clipped claws, but he’s still a beast,” the man warned.
“If he’s still a beast, can we shave him when we’re done and wear his skin as a pelt?” Nasal voice asked.
“I’d rather hang it off my bow and wave it like a flag,” the archer chimed, glancing at her comrades.
That was all it took, and Aldrik seized his opportunity. He charged and grabbed at her bow, immediately setting flame to both the hand and the weapon. The man was upon him quickly, however, and Aldrik was forced to relinquish his hold in order to dodge. He moved his fingers through the air, creating a curtain of flame; the man’s momentum caused him to step into it. The swordswoman dashed around and lunged from the side. Aldrik twisted his body and brought his elbow down hard on the back of her neck, sending her reeling. In a horrible way, he was like a song of death and flame.
“You bastard,” the man groaned as he found his footing again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Aldrik stepped back, but into the archer’s blow as she snapped the remains of her weapon across the back of his head. Aldrik gave a cry, falling to his knees. Vhalla felt her heart stop.
The man advanced on him with a satisfied grin, prepared to deal his fatal blow. Aldrik stuck out his hand and grabbed the man’s ankle; flames burned up the side of the man’s body and not even the paint could protect his skin. Aldrik rolled out of the way of the crash of the swordswoman’s attack and gained his footing again. Vhalla could see he was already winded, his posture hunched slightly.
The archer charged. Aldrik dodged easily and responded with a punch to her gut, but there was no more flame. The swordswoman spun, Aldrik dropped to a knee and held out his hand before crying out in anguish, his hand on his hip where she had seen a dark spot on his magic months ago.
The man chuckled darkly. Vhalla looked upon the Northerner in horror. Half of his clothes had been burnt off, large chunks of flesh with it. He looked like a corpse returned to life.
“See...” he heaved roughly. “His magic fails him.”
Aldrik glared up at the Northerners. His hair had fallen out of place wildly and it clung to his sweat-drenched face. His features were twisted in pain, but he was still proud and defiant. The crown prince’s hands clutched his hip as he looked up the sword at his throat.
“This is how a prince dies,” the man snickered and drew back his sword.
Vhalla opened her mouth to cry out.
“Wait!” The bow woman said, throwing off her mask. “I have a better idea.” She wore a wicked grin.
“Let’s just kill him and be done with it,” the nasal woman breathed, still catching her breath.
“Death is no fun without pain,” the archer said darkly.
“I will not scream.” Aldrik chuckled. “Whatever you do, I will not scream or beg, so it will be very boring.”
Vhalla studied the prince. His posture was relaxed and his voice calm, there was something almost inviting in its deep tones. As much as she wanted to believe he was bluffing, the tiny smirk told her otherwise. She hurt, and not from the arrow protruding from her. He had come to terms with his own death, and Aldrik was prepared to meet it at this moment. Her breath hitched in her throat.
“I didn’t say I was going to make you scream.” The bow woman turned and looked at Vhalla.
Vhalla straightened as best she could, instinctively scooting away from her assailant, ignoring the stabbing pains in her wounded shoulder.
“I don’t doubt you, prince. I’m sure your pain threshold is very high. But there are many different kinds of pain, aren’t there?” The sadistic woman almost cooed, her emerald eyes gleaming. “I wonder if hers is as high.” With a cold smile the woman walked over to Vhalla.
Vhalla looked at Aldrik helplessly before staring up at the Northerner who was about to decide her fate.
Grabbing the shaft of the arrow sticking out of Vhalla’s shoulder, the woman pulled upward, dragging Vhalla to her feet. She shook with the pain and the effort of keeping in her screams. Vhalla didn’t want to die like this, and she didn’t want to give these people the satisfaction of her anguish. Still gripping the arrow, the woman pulled Vhalla along over to where Aldrik knelt. His eyes wore a tormented mix of fury and sorrow.
Vhalla’s foot caught on a piece of rubble and she tripped. The fall ripped the arrow, fletching and all, clean through her shoulder. Vhalla cried out as she rolled in pain among the debris and human flesh littering the ground. Aldrik attempted to jump to his feet, but the man pressed the sword against his throat.
“Down,” he grunted, like Aldrik was a dog.
“Come girl, we’re not done yet.” The woman grabbed her by the hair and pulled Vhalla over the rest of the way. She was dumped an arm’s length from Aldrik but it seemed like half the world as Vhalla stared at him blankly, shattering at the sorrow of his beautifully dark eyes.
Pulling Vhalla up into a seated position, the woman plucked an arrow from her quiver.
“Tell me, prince, what is it you like about her?” The archer’s voice was rough.
“I like nothing, really; she is little more than a cheap whore I found,” Aldrik forced out with a flat voice.
“Is that so? Very fine clothes for a cheap whore. Do you like her face?” The woman ran the point of the arrow down Vhalla’s cheek, leaving a dripping red line in its wake.
Vhalla winced softly, her lower lip trembling.
“Why soil your weapon with her blood?” Aldrik tried, attempting to glance away casually.
“She has a nice figure. What about her breasts?” Two more cuts were upon her body and Vhalla felt tears on her cheeks.
“Enough,” Aldrik said softly, his eyes were back on her.
“Enough? She’s not just a whore?” the woman sneered. “What about her legs? Want to see them?” The woman lifted the hem of his jacket and Vhalla’s tattered skirts with the arrow, making a deep incision along the way.
“Enough!” Aldrik cried.
Vhalla looked at him and saw the panic in his eyes. The woman had won. The Northerner knew it too as she let out a laugh and released Vhalla, the broken library girl falling to the ground.
Vhalla stared at the world lifelessly. She would be torture for Aldrik to watch her die. They would kill him next. His, Sareem’s, and Roan’s deaths would all be on her hands.
“Don’t kill him,” she whispered.
The woman’s laugh quieted and she leaned over Vhalla. “What was that, you little shit? I didn’t hear it,” she snarled.
“Don’t kill him,” Vhalla repeated. She never took her eyes of Aldrik. “Do what you will to me, but don’t kill him, please.” Vhalla struggled to sit.
The woman laughed again. “You are nothing,” she snarled. “You are less than nothing. You were only something because it was amusing to hurt you.”
“And now it is no longer amusing,” the man said, raising his sword.
“No,” Vhalla whispered.
Aldrik stared at her unmoving. He didn’t try to run or flee—he simply stared.
“This ends now!” The man brought his sword down over Aldrik’s head.
“No!” Vhalla screamed. In less than a second, the only sound that filled her ears was the wind of the man’s sword cutting the air.